Chapter Text
"She saw you for the monster you really are. You really can't blame her for running away."
Pierce watches his captive; his voice holds a heavy undercurrent of triumph, and there's a cruel glint in his chilling blue eyes as he fingers the demon blade by his side: the one that, a couple of days ago, was driven into his chest by the man in front of him.
That's why, beneath his shirt, he can feel the weight of bandages, and the slow, rhythmic ache of the wound that came so close to finally ending his time on Earth (he refuses to take painkillers; pain just becomes an old friend when you've spent so long being immortal).
Lucifer's dark irises stare at the weapon and his cheek twitches with frustration - the only indication of his emotion that Pierce gets. Still, the thoughts driving it are as clear as day.
"Oh, and if you wanted me dead, you should have pressed a little harder," Pierce adds, softly, "?but you missed your chance, and your precious Detective isn't coming to save you. I doubt she even wants anything to do with you. She's smart like that."
The nightclub owner blinks at him, eyes dazed and clouded over, barely processing Pierce's words. It's a far cry from the sharp-minded Devil that Pierce has spent so long choosing his words carefully around, but he finds he doesn't mind.
Lucifer is weak like this; he's not a threat, and that's exactly how Pierce wants him.
The Devil's wrists are cuffed together and the middle chain has been looped through a hook in the ceiling, forcing them over his head, and leaving his bare feet to unsteadily brush against the floor. Even if he wanted to respond to Pierce's taunts, he couldn't - one of Pierce's men has roughly tied a cloth around his head and in his mouth, effectively silencing the Lord of Hell.
Lucifer tries to swallow instead, but the only thing in his throat is dry bile and metallic blood, so he ends up coughing, raggedly, against the gag instead, and the stifled noise provokes a dull throb of pain in his side.
It reminds both men of Lucifer's own injury - the one that led to his weakened state and easy capture in the first place.
He'd been so horrified at Chloe seeing his Devil Face that he'd somehow not realized that his shirt was rapidly darkening with his own blood, riding the waves of his own erratic heartbeat through the gaping knife wound in his side.
Lucifer's last memory had been of his legs failing him: even as his Devil Face had dissipated like smoke in the wind; even as he had registered movement of the man he'd thought he'd killed behind him; even as his own life-force had continued to crimson the marble floor beneath him…
It's hard for Lucifer to think.
He's seen enough violence in his time to know that his dulled conscience is a typical symptom of his blood-loss, but knowing why doesn't change the fact that it is. That he can't focus on anything without feeling even more nauseous and sick than he already does. That he's struggling to string coherent thoughts together. What's more, he's not sure that he wants to be able to.
The Detective's terrified expression has etched itself against his eyelids and it hurts - self-loathing clawing at the back of his eyes and causing his head to swim even more.
"..."
Lucifer distracts himself by staring, balefully, at Pierce, who is, once again, playing with the demon blade. As Lucifer watches, Pierce throws it in the air and masterfully catches it without even looking.
"It's not that I don't feel sympathy for you, since I'm sure this situation must be pretty shitty for you, wondering whether or not you've broken Decker and all… Pierce says, almost conversationally - not even sparing Lucifer a glance as he does so, "but I'm slightly more preoccupied by how much you've screwed up everything I've worked for. The police are after me now, and new identities are always a pain to set up. So I'm actually more pissed with you more than anything."
Have I broken Decker?
The reminder of that terrible question lodges itself in Lucifer's throat. He feels his eyes widen almost perceptibly, unwilling to accept that he might have. Unwilling to accept how much he might have fucked everything up, including his partner's state of mind.
He knows that he shouldn't be surprised.
He always fucks things up.
So now, what? Charlotte is dead. Chloe is terrified of him. Amenadiel's gone. He couldn't even kill Pierce.
Pierce's face is becoming a blur, and Lucifer realizes that darkness is encroaching on the edges of his vision, willing to take him if he lets it.
He hates how he wants it. He knows he shouldn't give in so easily but all he craves, right now, is to feel empty: no more loneliness (they all run from him, once they see who is really is); no more self-resentment burrowing into his chest like a parasite; no more pain and resentment as it dawns on him just how badly he's made everything.
"You don't look too good. Honestly, I'm not sure if you can even hear me at this point." Pierce's voice grows faint. "However, if you can, then know this. In time, I will make you pay for the inconvenience that you've caused me."
His threat barely registers in Lucifer's mind. Somewhere, faintly, Lucifer thinks?knows?that he should probably be more concerned by his current isn't the first time he's been chained up (although it's the first time in a long time it's been without his consent), but before the threats of violence have never been serious because he's always had had an escape plan up his sleeve.
However, he doesn't have one now, nor is his brain cooperating enough to come up with some semblance of one. The darkness is filling his mind and he sees no pointing in doing anything but giving in.
When it comes, it's a relief.
"..."
Pierce makes good on his threat. Two days? after that, when the knife wound to Lucifer's side has almost entirely closed up; when he's less physically weak due to the broth and water that Pierce's men have been force feeding him (the only brief reprieve of the gag that he gets), Pierce returns, twirling the familiar blade in his hand.
Pierce says nothing as he cuts the bloodied tatters of Lucifer's shirt off of him, exposing his upper half. However, as he does so Lucifer sees the sparks of hot vengeance leaping behind his eyes, and knows that Pierce doesn't intend to interrogate him, nor does he want to elicit a specific response from him. He just wants to let his rage out.
Lucifer swallows, thickly, at the knowledge, knowing that he's in for a lot of pain.
The prospect would affect him more if he wasn't so numb already.
I don't care if I die. I just want to stop feeling. He thinks, as he stares at Pierce. He forgets the strain in his aching arms, still holding most of his body weight, as he looks into the other man's blindingly blue eyes and remembers another, different set of blue eyes which had once looked at him with such affection.
The last time he'd seen them, they had held only shock.
Chloe… I'm so sorry. I couldn't help it.
Pierce lays into him, slamming the flat of the blade into Lucifer's chest and side, raising angry welts wherever he strikes. He works with calculated precision, and Lucifer knows that on the few occasions the sharp edge of the blade just about catches his skin and draws blood, it's on purpose.
He's grateful that he feels so empty.
It means that he barely feels the abuse.
He lets his head hang downwards. He lets himself fixate on the cold concrete floor, which sways back and forth, since every time that Pierce hits him the force sends him stumbling backwards, making him lose his unsteady footing for a second, forcing his arms to take his entire weight for a second. The strain feels worse than ever and he suspects that one of his shoulders might dislocate soon if Pierce doesn't let up.
Crack. That's a rib. The pain pierces Lucifer's fractured mind and lets out the first sound he's made so far: an angry, muffled groan into the gag.
"So you are conscious. That's good. I was worried you were completely out of it," Pierce says in response, cheerful as anything."
Lucifer continues to stare down.
Pierce renews his assault. This time, however, he angles the blade so that blood is drawn with almost every strike, creating a patchwork of light cuts and lacerations on Lucifer's chest which flow freely.
Lucifer's body instinctively tries to shy away after a blow which hits far too near his collarbone for comfort, and as he loses his footing once more on the cold floor which is fast becoming slippery with his own blood, he hears a sickening crunch as his right shoulder finally gives up the ghost. The pain hits a moment later, stronger than anything that's come before.
Mercifully, he only has to endure it for a few moments before he blacks out.
"..."
He wakes up on the floor.
He feels the weight of a bottle of water against his mouth, and he can feel the liquid running down his throat, soothing the pain. He closes his eyes, savoring the cool liquid, but the bottle is pulled away all too soon.
Lucifer blinks his eyes open. The ceiling stares back at him and he realizes that he's lying on his back. His wrists are still handcuffed in front of him, hands resting limply on his stomach, which is bloodied and bruised thanks to Pierce's work, but the gag is gone, at least. He works his jaw, grateful that he can close it.
Confusion floods him. What's happening? Is he being rescued?
He tries to sit up, but his bound hands make it impossible.
"Take it easy. Don't rush yourself." A gentle voice hits his ears. Lucifer turns his head to the side to see who's speaking, and fights to keep the dismay off of his face as he realizes that it's Pierce, crouching next to him,
He's not being saved.
Of course he isn't. Why would anyone want to save him, after everything he's done? Everything he's screwed up?
"We've just reset your shoulder. It's natural that you're still in a bit of shock," Pierce murmurs.
Lucifer glowers at him in response. He knows that this kindness is all an act, but that doesn't stop it from stinging, no doubt as Pierce knows it does.
He showed the Detective who he really was. A monster, undeserving of warmth or sympathy. A torturer of Hell.
He doesn't deserve kindness.
Not even the cruel, calculated kindness that Pierce is showing him now.
"Leave… m. alone," he slurs.
"I'm afraid that you don't get to make the decisions here," Pierce says. His voice remains soft, but his words are knives, designed to dig deep. "After all, we've all seen that you don't make good ones."
Lucifer bites his tongue. He wants to swear at Pierce, to shout obscenities at him and tell him he's wrong, but the apathy flowing through his veins is just as effective a gag as the physical one had been.
What's the point in speaking? It won't change anything. It won't change the past.
He registers one of Pierce's men approaching them. "The supplies you asked for, sir," he says, dropping some items next to the world's first murderer. Lucifer doesn't see what they are.
"Good," Pierce replies. The man steps back, and then Pierce turns his attention back to Lucifer. "I know your ability to heal is unnatural, but I'm sure your injuries can still get infected, and I don't want to risk that. So I'm just going to clean your wounds, okay?"
Lucifer turns his head away, dulled anger seeping through his veins.
A second later, he feels the pressure of a wet cloth being pressed against the cut near his collarbone.
The pressure is agonizing and Lucifer immediately understands why.
Salt water.
Bastard!
Involuntarily, Lucifer's back arches upwards, his whole body overwhelmed by a pain that he barely feels as the salt digs into his wounds. His vision roils, becoming a blur of gray and red. As his body slams back down, he breaks into a burst of hacking coughs which send spasms through his chest. The white stars that fill his eyes tell him that he's just aggravated the hoard of injuries there.
He's barely aware of Pierce shouting: "hold him down!"
He's barely aware of the weight of hands pressing down on his shoulders. The continued screaming of his own body as Pierce continues to run the towel, soaked in salt water, across his many cuts, wiping away not only the blood but also, for Lucifer, any semblance of lucidity.
Lucifer closes his eyes and waits for oblivion to take him.
"..."
He doesn't black out. Not this time. That would be too merciful. Too lucky. Lucifer isn't lucky.
Understatement of the century, he thinks, faintly. Bitterly. He's the Devil - he practically repels luck.
Instead, he remains in a fragmented state of awareness as Pierce wipes all the blood away. Too weak to scream, wracked by spasms which tear through his whole body.
Once the world's first murderer finishes, Lucifer feels himself being dragged across the floor by his cuffs and propped up against a wall.
His eyes remain shut and he's not sure he could open them if he tried. His limbs feel like lead, too heavy to do anything. It's like he's paralyzed. His mind is the only part of him that still works even the slightest bit.
Why did he show Chloe his Devil face?
Why didn't he think to check that Pierce was truly dead?
Why didn't he stop Pierce earlier?
Those questions loop around and around in his head like a broken record. All alone, in the darkness of his own head and stuck with himself, Lucifer curls up, wishing with futility that he could drown out the emotional pain.
Wishing that he couldn't feel anything at all.
"..."
At some point (Lucifer long gave up trying to keep track of time), someone feeds him more water and some flavorless broth. Then, later, he feels hands gripping his arms and legs, pulling him off the floor and pushing the middle chain back onto the hook on the ceiling, so that he's left hanging once more. The gag is inserted back into his mouth, and he's left alone again.
Over the next… (Day? Two days?), he heals, with typical divine speed. He tries to keep his eyes open as much as possible, glaring with unbridled fury at any of Pierce's men who dare meet his gaze when they come to feed him or check his condition. They soon learn to avert their eyes.
He likes instilling fear into them, because it helps distract him from the continuing emptiness he feels inside. The feeling that he's lost everything and that there's nothing he can do to fix things.
The feeling that shows no sign of lessening as time drags on.
Eventually, Pierce returns.
Lucifer's body is tense as a wire as the other man paces back and forth in front of him. The demon blade in his hand catches the light from the dim bulbs overhead, and Lucifer wonders when Pierce found time to clean his blood off of its edge.
"I've been trying to figure out why I'm so angry at you," Pierce says. "And it's not just because you messed my life up. You also messed up our mutual Detective by showing her your real face, and I don't like the thought of her being upset. So I think it's time that you were appropriately punished for that."
He steps forward and undoes the gag. Then he stands back and waits to see if Lucifer will talk.
Lucifer bares his teeth at Pierce, but stays quiet. He won't give Pierce any ammunition—not when the pain he feels at the mention of the Detective would show so clearly.
Pierce smirks at the silent display of anger and, casual as anything, proceeds to trace the blade across Lucifer's left cheekbone with just enough pressure to break the skin. A single, warm droplet of blood trickles down the side of his face as a result, finally settling amidst his stubble.
Lucifer flinches, but forces himself to stay still. He doesn't want to lose his grip on the floor again.
"It makes me happy to hurt the face which caused her so much pain," Pierce says, moving the blade across downwards until it rests against the side of Lucifer's jaw. There, he creates another cut, draws another drop of blood which creeps down his neck and settles in the curve of his collarbone.
Lucifer holds his breath.
"You know you deserve this, don't you?" Pierce says.
Lucifer feels his head start to drop in a nod, and makes himself stop before the other man notices. He can't agree. He can't let Pierce see how guilty he truly feels.
That conviction is the only strong thought he has, even as Pierce continues to cut at the left side of his face. By the time that Pierce finally steps back, that whole side feels unnaturally numb and warm compared to the rest of his body.
"Now then, shall I start on the right?" Pierce says.
Barely have the words left his mouth when a new voice calls out. "Sir, Matthew's operation has just suffered a raid. I've got him on the phone right now!"
Both Lucifer and Pierce look over at the man calling from the doorway.
"I'm coming," Pierce spat, before saying to Lucifer, "Don't relax just yet, we aren't done here."
He stalks out of the room, annoyance clear with every step.
Lucifer breathes out, deeply and audibly, as soon as he's alone. The injured side of his face is hot, the sting from each cut blurring together and making it impossible to figure out how many there are. HIs eye and lip has been spared, but as he blinks, the warm, sticky blood clinging to his lashes makes its presence known.
He breathes in again, quietly considering his current state. His wounds should hurt so much more, he knows that they should. He's just too empty to care. There's probably some sort of self-actualization going on, but it's not like he can do anything about it.
When he saw Chloe's reaction to seeing the real him, it felt like someone had just ripped his heart out, taking away his capacity to feel pain or anguish or anything except the guilt currently consuming every cell in his body, weighing him down like a lead ball, slowly crushing him.
He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.
When Pierce returns a little while later, he knows it's bad. Pierce's blue eyes are as sharp as icicles and full of fury.
"Do you have any idea how much the LAPD's snooping around has just cost me!" he practically shouts.
Lucifer blinks.
"This is all your fucking fault, and you will suffer the fucking consequences," Pierce shouts: reaching up, grabbing the cuffs, and yanking them off of the hook. Lucifer drops to the floor like a sack of bricks, landing painfully on his front, cuffed hands trapped between his body and the floor. The impact snatches all the air from his lungs, and he finds himself desperately gasping for breath, chest aching with the effort.
He doesn't have the strength to move, but senses the cold metal of the demon blade searing across his back as Pierce slices at it, with precise vertical strokes, seemingly cutting at every bit of untouched skin he finds there. Breathless and still badly winded from the drop, Lucifer is unable to fight back, only able to continue heaving the air into his chest as Pierce continues to make a bloody mess of his back.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block himself off from the world. From the pain and the torture.
He just wants this all to end.
He soon enters that same state of half-unconsciousness, half-awareness that he'd been in before, only faintly registering the abuse that Pierce continued to inflict on his body.
Only faintly aware when it stops.
After even more time passes, Lucifer's senses come back to him, a little. He registers shouting, far away. He registers that he's alone. He tries to turn his head to look around, but his body refuses to obey his mind's commands, so he continues to lie on the concrete floor, letting the cold bleed into his bones.
"..."
Then, he hears footsteps nearby. Loud, making the floor vibrate beneath him.
Someone pushes his shoulder, rolling him onto his side
Lucifer lets out a weak, half-choking, half-coughing sound as his body moves.
Then, he hears a voice right next to him. An achingly familiar one.
"Jesus Christ, Lucifer," Dan Espinoza says. "What have they done to you?"